


The Baker Street Compendium

by LyricalSinger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalSinger/pseuds/LyricalSinger
Summary: My collection of 221Bs.
Kudos: 10





	1. Cliché

**Author's Note:**

> I am finally copying this over from FF.net - where my first 221B was published in August 2014! Despite what may appear, each of these is a 221B (excluding, of course, any author's notes/comments).

Everything was going well, until about four minutes after the Detective and the Doctor had walked onto the crime scene to consult with Lestrade and, as Sherlock had put it, "solve the case before the idiots took over".

Greg had called with what sounded like a solid "8" on Sherlock's Scale of Crimes: a windowless room locked from the inside, a missing early Picasso and, best of all, a body!

The Detective curtly gestured for the D.I. and the Doctor to wait in the doorway while he carefully examined both the body and the room. The body, the ex-Mrs. Griggs-Barton, showed no signs of violence and the room was pristine, except for the open door of a now-empty wall safe.

Suddenly Sherlock threw his hands the air and a string of invective issued from his mouth, shocking both John and Greg into silence. The language Sherlock was using was enough to make the proverbial stevedore blush!

"Sherlock! What's wrong?" asked John as he entered the room and slowly approached the agitated Detective who was now shaking his head and muttering, "No, no, no, no!"  
At John's hand on his arm, Sherlock quieted, looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

"I'm can't believe I'm going to say this," he said in an aggrieved tone, "but it was the butler!"


	2. Ooh You Bastard

Lestrade walked further into the darkness of the car park, patting his pockets searching for his cigarettes. It had been one of "those" days … the kind of day where he missed Sherlock desperately. While thrilled that the Consulting Detective's name had finally been cleared, it hadn't happened soon enough.

Even though two years had passed, Greg still thought of the Detective every day. But today, this case, this was one of the tricky ones that Sherlock thrived on. Lestrade and his team had been banging their heads over the Waters gang for a while now. It was almost as if they were psychic; they always seemed to know when NSY would arrive and cleared out seconds before. It was frustrating and annoying and it was making Greg pull what little hair he had left on his head.

While he wasn't one for 'if only's', Greg was thinking: 'if only I'd come down harder on Donovan and Anderson'; 'if only I'd paid more attention'; 'if only I'd dug a little deeper' … 'if only I'd been like John and believed'.

As he placed a cigarette to his lips, a clang sounded from the darkness. Seeing nothing, Greg flicked his lighter and a voice from the past washed over him.

Shocked, all Greg could say was, "Ooh, you bastard".


	3. The End of the Case

It had been a week from Hell as far as John was concerned, although Sherlock was in his element.

Lestrade was at a crime scene where there appeared to be three bodies. More precisely, there were _three left feet_ at the scene; nothing else. Realizing they'd need Sherlock's help with this one, Lestrade pulled out his phone and placed the call.

" _Appears_ to be three bodies? What, Anderson can't count?" snipped Sherlock as he tossed John's jacket towards him and grabbed his own coat before thundering down the stairs and out the front door.

"Just get over here and you'll see what I'm talking about," answered Lestrade before hanging up.

And that's how "The Three Feet Adventure" began. John and Sherlock had spent the week running between the crime scene, Bart's labs, the morgue and an abandoned plastics factory before ending up at a squalid little flat where, after a rooftop chase, they captured the killer.

It was an adventure for the ages, but it had left both Sherlock and John looking a little ragged around the edges. Exhausted, John watched his friend climb the seventeen steps to their flat. The Doctor figured he could enjoy at least two days of calm before Hurricane Sherlock struck again.

Then the three words John hated most floated down from above: "John, I'm bored."


	4. Chess

John was relaxing in his chair, watching his friend with amusement. Taking a sip of tea from the mug in his hand, John looked out the window, glanced at Sherlock, eyed the skull on the mantle, looked back at Sherlock and sighed. They'd been like this for almost ten minutes.

Sherlock was hunched over the board, his hand hovering over his bishop ready to make his move. But instead he pulled his hand back, still studying the board intently. Sherlock frowned, and then, taking off his new glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his hand up through his curls, mussing them even more. Putting his glasses back on, he returned to his examination of the chess board.

Thirty minutes later, with a "Ha!" Sherlock finally made his move.

In response, John reached across the board and shifted one his rooks. "Checkmate."

Sherlock stared from the board to his friend, in shock. Sherlock _never_ lost at chess, yet he'd just lost! To _John_!

On seeing the smirk now gracing John's face, Sherlock let out a growl, stood and stalked towards the kitchen.

Laughing at his friend's reaction, John called out, "Next time, let's just play a nice, simple game of backgammon!"


	5. Mae West

John stumbled and then tripped twice as he navigated the stairway to the flat. He wasn't drunk _per se_ , just … _happy_. Murray's stag had been a rousing success and it had been great to reconnect with some of his army buddies. Best of all, the cute barrister at the next table had given him her number.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, staring in the fridge trying to decide whether to start his experiment on the hearts he'd stashed behind the milk when he heard John lurching up the stairs.

Deducing that his friend had consumed at least four pints and no food, Sherlock flicked on the kettle, filled a glass with water and grabbed a couple of pieces of fruit from the bowl Mrs. Hudson had optimistically placed on the table.

By the time John made it up the stairs, Sherlock was standing in the doorway with the glass of water in one hand, the bottle of paracetamol in the other and trouser pockets distended with fruit.

On seeing his friend, John giggled, pointed at Sherlock's pocket and drawled, "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Handing over the water and pills, Sherlock frowned at his friend with bemusement. "Why would I have a gun in my pocket? Here, eat this banana."  
________________________________________  
A/N #1: My apologies for the utter silliness of this, but it had to be done (and yes, it is a 221B once you remove my A/Ns).

A/N #2: In case you can't decipher the title to this chapter, John's quote at the end is attributed to Mae West and is from the film She Done Him Wrong. And yes, he does get the quote wrong!


	6. The Colours of My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the song "The Colours of My Life", from the musical "Barnum".  
> ______________________________________________________________________________________

The Army Doctor, _ex-Army Doctor_ he thought to himself bitterly, sat on the edge of the single bed in the tiny bedsit in the middle of one of the least attractive areas of London and stared blankly at the wall in front of him. He'd been awake since 3:27, jolted out of sleep, albeit a very restless sleep, by the sounds and sights of Afghanistan.

John Watson was no fool. He knew that he'd never forget the fears and the occasional joys that were part of his past. Lord knew he'd never forget the pain; that was the one thing he'd brought home from Afghanistan that he wished he'd been able to leave behind.

Pain was a constant in John Watson's life; the physical pain of wounds, the emotional pain of deaths of friends and comrades. But as he looked around his room, John realized that he'd brought home something else from Afghanistan.

He'd brought home dullness. It seemed that everything in his life was dull in comparison to the brightness of his previous existence. The walls of his room were a sickly-looking taupe, the bedspread was an odd shade of sand; even his clothes were bland.

As he looked around the room, the Doctor wondered if, from now on, the colours of his life would be varying shades of beige.


	7. The Colours of My Life, Part 2

Amazing, mused the ex-Army Doctor, the difference thirty-six hours could make. In that short period of time he'd reconnected with an old friend, met an incredible, insane, brilliant Consulting Detective, raced through the back alleys and over the rooftops of London, been propositioned by said Detective's overbearing brother, and been witness to a drugs bust. And let's not forget that he'd killed a man because, though he'd only known Sherlock Holmes for about twenty-four hours, it was obvious even to John that the Detective had no sense of self-preservation!

It had been an overwhelming, absolutely _amazing_ thirty-six hours and John had not felt so alive in months. Even his limp had disappeared, thanks to the machinations of his new … could he be called a 'friend' after such a short time? _Yes_ , thought John, _definitely a friend._

As John packed his few belongings into his old kit bag and a couple of boxes, he looked around the bedsit that had been his home since his release from hospital. It was absolutely the most depressing flat he'd ever seen; a complete contrast to the companionship and adventure that was 221B Baker Street.

As he closed the flap on the last box, John let out a laugh of absolute joy. From now on, he realized, his life could no longer be considered "beige".


	8. Breathe

The pain was so intense, it grabbed every last molecule of air from his lungs and flung it far away. As he lay there on the path alone, gasping for air, with black spots beginning to form at the edge of his vision, he thought to himself, "Is this it?"

With his vision fading and the pain ebbing through his body like waves on the shore, he found that his hearing was heightened. Over the sound of London's ever-present yet ever-changing rumblings, he was surprised to hear bird song. One lonely bird was chirping in the tree nearby. He could hear the rustle of leaves as the gentle breeze wafted through the trees. He could hear the click of heels as people walked by the park where he lay desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.

And the smells! Here was the sharp tang of newly-mown grass and the dank, musty aroma of leaf mould. And … was that the scent of roses?

Resigned to his fate, his sight now narrowed to a pinpoint of light, he suddenly heard the pounding of feet heading in his direction. A voice yelled, "He's here. Get an ambulance! Now!"

He felt the sudden warmth of hands on his shoulders and heard John whisper in his ear, "I've got you Greg. Now just breathe!"


	9. Dream (or Nightmare)

John was dozing on the sofa when his eyes snapped open. _"What brought that on?"_ he thought as he sat up.

It was, without a doubt, the oddest dream he'd ever had. In it, Sherlock was wandering around the flat, unclothed but for his blue scarf wrapped once around his neck, and bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain "bear of little brain". He still had his head of untamed curls, though, which made him look rather … _peculiar_ … to say the least.

John, however, was fully clothed (and seeming very smart in his striped onesie); however, he appeared to have grown some very large ears and was looking decidedly pink. Piglet John was perched on the edge of his chair listening intently to Sherlock Pooh Bear as he revelled in having solved their latest case.

"Ohhhh!" exclaimed John as he finally put the pieces together. The case had involved an antique Winnie the Pooh stuffed bear; that would explain his dream.

Suddenly John's nose wrinkled and the smell of burning toast drifted through from the kitchen. John could hear Sherlock banging away and cursing, presumably at the toaster, as he approached the kitchen door.

"Not again," John moaned, watching his friend fan away the smoke rising from the now-ruined appliance.

Glancing over at the Doctor, Sherlock muttered, "Oh bother."


	10. Your Brother

Mycroft was a self-contained child, even at seven years old. He was polite, well spoken, careful with his possessions and, above all, a loner. He had no real friends, which was fine with him; he was perfectly content on his own. 

That’s not to say that Mummy and Father didn’t do their best to encourage him to cultivate friendships, but Mycroft tended to treat the other children with polite disdain. Eventually, Mummy and Father gave in and let Mycroft be. 

However, it was all about to change: Mummy was pregnant. Young Mycroft was not looking forward to the chaos that a sibling would bring to his well-ordered existence, yet for his parents’ sake, he was trying to face his future with a brave face. 

The fateful day arrived in early January when Mycroft was awoken by Father shaking his shoulder and saying those dreaded words, “Mikey, the baby is here!” 

Resigned to his fate, Mycroft got dressed, got into the car with Father and stared silently out the window during the drive to the hospital. He briefly wondered whether the interloper was a boy or a girl. Father hadn’t said and Mycroft didn’t care enough to ask. 

On entering Mummy’s room, Father took a small, wriggly bundle from Mummy and placed it in Mycroft’s reluctant arms, saying, “Here is your brother.”


	11. Brothers Meet

Young Mycroft sat in the surprisingly comfortable chair in Mummy’s room, and looked down at the tightly swaddled blue bundle in his arms. Well, at least he now knew he had a brother. 

Mummy and Father smiled gently at each other over Mycroft’s head. They knew the anxiety their oldest had been experiencing over the last six weeks or so of the pregnancy. Mycroft was such an orderly child and, while he never said anything, his parents realized how concerned their eldest was at the thought of having a newborn in the house. Yet here, now, at this moment, they could see that all would be fine. 

Mycroft was staring down at the small, flaxen-haired child with a look of awe. A small hand managed to wriggle out of the blankets and tiny fingers flailed about the baby’s face.

“Easy,” whispered Mycroft. He brought his own hand up to still the child’s movements when suddenly his forefinger was caught in a surprisingly tight grip. Wide, bright blue eyes opened and seemed to stare directly into Mycroft’s soul. 

Mycroft looked up at Mummy with a wide grin on his face. “What’s his name?” he asked. 

Father chortled and said, “His name is Sherlock. So, Mikey, what do you think?” 

Returning his gaze to his baby brother, Mycroft said, “I think he’s beautiful.”


	12. Rx

John had just said goodbye to his final patient when a frantic knocking sounded on his office door and the receptionist stepped in.

"John," said Nancy, "I'm really sorry. I know your shift is over but there's a man here who insists that he will see only you. He's raising quite a ruckus. Would you mind …?"

Nancy had barely finished speaking when the door was flung open and Sherlock limped into the office, looking quite put out.

"What happened?" asked John, as he helped Sherlock over to the exam table. The Detective whined dramatically, "My foot; it's broken."

While Sherlock moaned and groaned in a performance worthy of a BAFTA, John gently removed the Detective's footwear. Watching John examine his foot, Sherlock growled, "It's that _idiot_ Anderson's fault. He tripped over the pattern in the floor tiles and dropped the box he was carrying on my foot! I know something's broken."

John was gently manipulating Sherlock's foot when Sherlock yelled, "OUCH. Be _careful_!"

"Sorry," murmured John. Looking up at his flatmate whose face now wore a scowl of epic proportions, John said, "I'll get you an ice pack. Fortunately, nothing's broken."

"What?! That can't be right. The pain … it's _unbearable._ "

John slapped the ice pack on Sherlock's foot and said, with a grin, "It's only bruised, you big baby!"


	13. One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three

A few weeks earlier John had thoroughly astounded Sherlock with the pronouncement that he was John's best friend and his choice for Best Man. Now the two men were sitting in the kitchen of 221B with steaming mugs of tea.

Sherlock hadn't really had friends growing up, and to discover that he was now someone's _best_ friend was, frankly, a bit disconcerting. He sat at the table watching his friend(!) hemming and hawing and speaking without really saying anything, until he'd finally had enough and said, "John, _what_ is the matter?"

John's eyes snapped up from their intense study of his tea and met Sherlock's before he looked away, face flushing.

"Well, Sherlock … as you know, the wedding is soon and … uh …I'm …" The Doctor's voice trailed away.

"You are afraid you are going to make a fool of yourself on the dance floor because you've no talent for dancing," said Sherlock.

John's eyes flew back to Sherlock's and he said, "How on earth … never mind. You're right. Mary is excited about our first dance and I've no idea what to do."

Sherlock stood, walked into the sitting room and turned on his iPod. Spinning back to his friend, with a grin he said, "I'll teach you. May I have this dance?" he added with a bow.


	14. Shave and a Haircut

"I'll never understand it," said John as he reclined in the barber's chair.

"Understand what?" asked Chris as placed a warmed towel over John's face.

John hummed contentedly and listened as Chris picked up a straight razor and strop. This always happened when John came in for a shave; once the warm towel was in place, it was as if his brain shut down for a moment.

The _snick, snick_ that sounded as the razor was drawn across the leather elicited a visceral response in John; his shoulders rose towards his ears and he broke out in goose flesh. It's not that he was afraid, but it was human nature to be wary of sharp instruments that would soon be held near one's jugular.

Removing the now-cool towel, Chris asked again, "You don't understand what?"

"How someone could indulge themselves in the luxury of a shave with a straight razor, yet not allow the barber to finish the job," said John. "That guy who just left, for example. He's beautifully shaven except for that ridiculous-looking soul patch."

From behind his own warm towel, Sherlock's voice emerged, "Soul patch, John? Kindly use the proper term."

"And that would be …?" asked Chris in curiosity.

"Ha, and you call yourself a barber," responded Sherlock with an audible smirk. "The proper term is _barbula._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every moment is a teaching moment for Sherlock!  
> When I saw this "b" word for the first time I had to look it up; which, of course, led to this 221B.


	15. Martha

On first glance, Martha Hudson seemed nothing more than a slightly dotty, typical British lady of a certain age. That, however, couldn't have been further from the truth! How many typical British ladies found themselves, in the course of their lives, working as an exotic dancer, married to a murderer, running a drug cartel, and, in the end, becoming housemother to a Detective and an ex-Army Doctor?

Yet, it was her interesting and varied background that made her the perfect landlady/housekeeper/mother to her two tenants.

Martha had always thought it a blessing that she and Frank had never had any children; life with Frank was difficult enough without adding little ones into the mix. Then, she met a tall, gangly, strung-out yet brilliant young man who stepped in to her life one day and made all the evil go away.

Sherlock swiftly became the son she'd never had, and she loved and tutted over him like any mother would. She had no money to repay him for all he had done for her; instead she promised him a home when he finally returned to London.

Soon enough, Martha had not one, but two lodgers. John quickly wormed his way into her heart with his innate kindness and patience.

It wasn't long before she started referring to her tenants as "My boys".


	16. A Day Off

"Jooohhhnnnn," whined the Detective. "Why are we still here? The case is over, the poisoner is caught and London's calling."

"Hunh. Never thought of you as a fan of The Clash," answered John as he buried his toes into the warm sand.

"London Calling …. The Clash." Seeing the blank look on his friend's face, John grinned and said, "We're here because you promised that once the case was solved we would spend a day relaxing. For God's sake, Sherlock, can't you just sit down and enjoy the view?"

"John, in case you haven't noticed, that's sand. If I sit down it will end up all over my clothes and permeating my socks and shoes."

"That's why most people take off their shoes and socks and roll up their pants when they're relaxing in the sand," answered John with a smirk as he reached over and, grabbing the bottom of Sherlock's jacket, pulled him down.

"John!" sputtered Sherlock as he suddenly found himself sprawled on the ground with sand worming its way into every nook and cranny of his anatomy.

"Relax, Sherlock, it's only a little sand. Besides, you know what they say: _Life's a Beach!_ "


	17. Lullaby

They had been flatmates for six months, and Sherlock was well aware that John suffered from nightmares. While, over time, their frequency had diminished, they had not disappeared completely.

The first came at the conclusion of what John eventually titled “A Study in Pink” on his ridiculous blog. Sherlock had been in the kitchen, at his microscope, when he heard noises coming from above. A sudden shout had the detective racing up the stairs, afraid someone was attacking his flatmate.

Flinging open the door to the doctor’s room, Sherlock barged in to find John sitting up, sweaty and gasping for breath.

“Everything all right?” asked Sherlock. “I heard a yell.”

“I’m fine,” answered John, now flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Oh … well … goodnight,” answered Sherlock as he closed the door and headed back to his experiment.

_Nightmares_ , thought Sherlock as he sat at his microscope. _Not surprising, considering recent events._

Thus an experiment was born. Whenever Sherlock heard John wake shouting, he would reach for his violin and begin playing; lullabies mostly. Soon, Sherlock could anticipate a “danger night” and would start playing before the nightmare really took hold.

Watching John climb the stairs to his room, Sherlock _knew_ the nightmares would come that night. So, placing his violin under his chin, he reached for his bow.


	18. Bees

He lay in the tall grass at the back of the yard, hiding from the harsh realities of the world.

"Inoperable" and "Cancer," and "The kindest thing we can do for him," they'd said. His First Mate, his anchor, his best friend, was gone. Redbeard was gone, leaving behind a small, lost little boy.

He'd pleaded and Mummy and Father had done everything possible to try to save the Irish Setter, but by the time the illness was discovered, it was too late. It was just a matter of time before the inevitable.

At ten years old, Sherlock understood the progression the illness would take, so he told Mummy he wanted a week. A week out of school to spend with his friend, to create memories that would have to last him a lifetime. Smiling sadly at her young son standing before her trying to be brave, trying not to cry, Mummy ran her hand over his head and said, "Of course, my darling."

It was a week of joy tinged with sadness. Sherlock and Redbeard ran riot around the garden and through the nearby woods, the air echoing with laughter and barking.

And then it was time. One last hug and Redbeard was gone.

He lay in the tall grass, sobbing, with no one to hear him but the bees.


	19. Fear Realized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during the dénouement of “The Hounds of Baskerville”. I wanted to write a 221B, but the muse refused to bow to my will. Instead, I offer a double 221B: a 442-word story whose last word starts with a “b”.  
> ________________________________________________________________________-

“Shit!”

“Greg, are you seeing this?” cried John.

Greg gave a quick nod before returning his horrified gaze to the snarling creature stalking the ridgeline of the hollow.

Sherlock’s assurances that it was “just a dog” did nothing to calm Greg’s fears. He was terrified of dogs and had been ever since his schooldays. 

On hearing the brute’s snarls, Greg’s memories begin to overwhelm him, leading him down a path best forgotten. For weeks, every day after school Greg had exited the building desperately hoping that today would be the day the local dog pack would not give chase. Luck was never on Greg’s side. Instead, every day he was forced to run home, sobbing in fear and gasping for breath, as the dogs ran behind and snapped at his heels.

Even now, Greg could still recall the heart-pounding terror of those terrible days.

“Someone should do something” and “They’re a bloody menace” were the phrases his Da used, yet every day Greg was forced to run home in terror. Until one day, when the dog pack was gone. Weeks of complaining had finally brought relief; the dogs had been captured and removed.

But the damage was done; never again would Greg stop in the park to pat Mrs. Dobson’s beagle or throw sticks for Mr. Toller’s collie. Greg even lost his best friend because he couldn’t bear to be anywhere near Frank’s Scottish Terrier. He had even taken to crossing the street when he saw someone out for a stroll with their pet. 

Greg had managed to avoid his fears for years, but now, in this dark and misty hollow, they had found him. He wanted to run, but he knew his friends were relying on him, so he quelled his instinct and stood firm.

The dog let out a terrifying howl and Greg stumbled back, moaning, “Oh my God.”

Two great leaps and the creature was now standing in the midst of the men, its eyes glowing red in the torchlight.

“Oh Christ!” yelled Greg as the dog opened its maw to reveal a mouthful of huge, pointed teeth. His childhood instinct to run was rising. He was desperately looking for an escape route when a harsh scream penetrated his fear. “Kill it!”

Without thinking, Greg raised his arm and fired off three shots. He missed, but John aimed true. The dog was dead. 

Later that night, Greg sat by the Inn’s fireplace enjoying a well-deserved scotch and contemplating the day’s events. He had faced his fear and survived. Oh, he still didn’t like dogs, but never again would he have to go to great lengths to avoid the beasts.


	20. Take Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the episode “His Last Vow” (Season 3, ep. 3) just after Mycroft and Sherlock were caught smoking by Mummy.  
> _________________________________________________--

“Also, your loss would break my heart.” Truer words were never spoken, thought Mycroft, as he gently closed the cottage door behind him. 

Despite his earlier comment, Mycroft knew that Sherlock had not given up his quest to ensnare Magnussen. But right now he had no recourse - short of locking up his brother - to prevent Sherlock from proceeding with whatever insane plot he’d cooked up. All the Government man could do was to put his own plans in place and be ready to step in when the time came.

Mycroft was worried for Sherlock; the younger man was still not fully recovered from the shooting and he was pushing himself to the limits of his endurance. And not only that, he was dragging John along with him. Mycroft knew that John and Mary had been going through some difficult times, what with Sherlock’s lengthy recovery and John having spent the last few months at 221B taking care of his friend. However, the state of their marriage was not his concern at the moment.

No; Sherlock was obviously planning something reckless and Mycroft, for once, was floundering in the dark trying to determine his brother’s plans.

_Take care, little brother_ , whispered Mycroft as he turned towards the beckoning warmth of the kitchen, _your loss is something I could never bear._


	21. Prague

He sat at a small table in the darkest corner of the tiny café located at the foot of the Charles Bridge. He’d been in Prague for less than sixteen hours but had already located the hideout of his next target. Staring into his fourth cup of cappuccino, Sherlock could not find the wherewithal to choke it down. He was sick to death of coffee; what he wanted was a cup of tea. John’s tea, to be specific; but that was nothing more than a melancholic wish.

Instead, here he sat, dishevelled, exhausted and with nerves stretched more taught than the strings on his violin, buzzing with the caffeine coursing through his veins. And he waited. He waited for the Serbian hitman to show himself; he waited for the opportunity to put the skills he’d learned at the hands of the gentle – yet deadly – Buddhist monk to the test. 

That same monk had also taught Sherlock how to transcend pain; a useful talent considering the physical abuse that he had been subject to from the day he began his one-man crusade to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal web.

His body was nothing more than transport and he had no time to bow under the weight of his wounds. Instead, he needed to become the machine that John had once accused him of being.


	22. Crisps and a Beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was challenged to use the words "cowcat", "astringent" and "geoduck" and the story must reference Reykjavik. This is my best attempt!  
> ______________________________________ 

John still didn't understand why _he_ had to fly to Reykjavik, while Sherlock got to follow up leads in Costa del Sol. He was bloody well going to freeze to death, he just knew it! And, as the icing on this frozen cake, he was traveling as part of Mycroft's team.

Sure, the accommodations would be fabulous; and yes, they were traveling by private jet; but Reykjavik … in February?! The worst part was that despite his talents as both doctor and soldier, John knew he would be nothing more than a cowcat on this trip. He'd be one more suit in the sea of suits accompanying Mycroft and the other delegates.

John stared out of the Cessna's window as they took off from the small private airport. Judging from the astringent "new car smell", this was the plane's maiden flight. Snorting, John mentally corrected that to "new _airplane_ smell."

Glancing towards his traveling companion, Mycroft gave him a supercilious smile and said, "I hope you are not allergic to shellfish."

"No. Why?"

"Chef has prepared one of my favourite dishes: geoduck corn chowder."

"Geoduck? Isn't that the weird, phallic-looking clam?" Looking up at the steward who had just placed a suspicious bowl of … something … in front of Mycroft, John said, "I'll just have some crisps and a beer."


	23. Man Buns and Chocolate and Stenches - Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge was to write an "anti-Valentine's Day" story that uses the words "corpse flower", "bittersweet chocolate" and "man bun"! Oh, yeah, and the story has to involve two people who despise each other; who better than Sherlock and Anderson?  
> _________________________ 

"Anderson! What is that abominable _stench_ emanating from your person? You smell like an _Amorphophallus titanium_ ", snapped Sherlock.

"Amphra … what?"

"Honestly, must I always dumb it down for you? You smell like a corpse flower. Now leave, you're making me nauseous."

"You can't talk to me like that!" yelled Anderson as he glared at the consulting detective. "I'm the one with years of training; you're just a freak who gets off on murders! You flit in, make some ridiculous statements and then swan off like you've save the world. I've had enough, you … you … _Freak!_ "

"Besides, I'm wearing "Bittersweet" by Tokyo Milk; a new cologne with hints of bittersweet chocolate. I don't smell anything at all like some stupid plant that blooms once every million years and smells like rotting flesh!" added Anderson in an aggrieved tone.

"Anyway, the ladies seem to like it," he said, with a smile sent in Sally Donovan's direction. She was new to the team, and Anderson was extremely interested in getting to know her.

"Really, Anderson … now you're going after the newbie? Hopefully she's got more brains than to fall for your idiotic moves," said Sherlock as he strode over to Lestrade's side.

"One more thing; if you want to make a good impression, get rid of that ridiculous man bun!"


	24. Strange Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The challenge: Use the words "greasemonkey", "turgid", "bissextus" and Constantinople/Istanbul must be referenced somehow. I used a little bit of poetic license as regards "Istanbul". "Bisextus" means "February 29: the extra day added to the Julian calendar every 4 years"  
> ___________________________ 

Sherlock stared at his friend, gob smacked.

"I've finally done it; I've rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless," said John in a wry tone as he stood there, oil and other noxious liquids dripping off him.

"You're filthier than a greasemonkey. What happened?" asked Sherlock as he watched his friend start to strip down. They were in the small yard at the rear of 221B, as Mrs. Hudson had refused to allow John entry until he had "removed those disgusting clothes."

"Actually," said John, "it's your fault. I was following up with Mr. Perfew, as instructed. He's into motorbikes … _really_ into them. His back shed is filled with parts of at least seven bikes lying all over the place. He also owns a corgi; the most turgid little bugger I've ever seen and it is one _mean_ son of a bitch! The damn thing kept trying to take a piece out of me."

"I was fighting off the damn dog when I tripped over Istanbul – Mr. Perfew's cat – and fell into a barrel of oil and other … stuff."

"This day has been a disaster from the moment I woke up," said John as he stared down at his now-ruined shooting jacket.

"I'm not surprised," said Sherlock as he struggled not to laugh. "Strange things always seem to happen on the bissextus."


	25. Easter Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another challenge: write a story using the words "existentialism", "gooey", "pungent" and it must somehow involve an egg-laying bunny!  
> ____________________________________ 

"Kierkegaard, the Father of Existentialism," called Sherlock from the kitchen.

John was trying to watch _QI_. Unfortunately, it was the only show that Sherlock deemed watchable and he insisted on yelling the answers at the telly.

"Sherlock, _shut up!_ I'm trying to watch this!"

Getting no response other than an absent-minded hum and a chorus of tinkling glass, John finally gave up and headed into the kitchen to see what Mr-Know-It-All was doing.

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table surrounded by flasks and containers of all shapes and sizes. The Bunsen burner was lit and a test tube suspended above the flame was half-full of a rather pungent-smelling brown liquid.

Still, he'd smelled worse so John ignored it and instead headed to the fridge. Stashed in the back of the crisper was his last Cadbury Creme Egg. They were his favourite and he had been looking forward to this all day.

John gently peeled the foil from around the egg and took a bite. Heaven - if Heaven was a gooey center surrounded by smooth chocolate. Taking another bite, John said, "God, I _love_ these things! Too bad they only come out at Easter."

"You're such a child sometimes," said Sherlock as he took in John's shining eyes and chocolate-covered mouth. "Next thing you'll say you believe in egg-laying bunnies!"


	26. Knit One, Purl Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another challenge story: This time, use the words "trotting", "cataclysmic" and "nanosecond" and it must also involve knitting. Here's my best attempt!  
> __________________________ 

John came trotting down the long hallway towards Greg's office. Sherlock and Greg were supposed to be clearing up the last of the paperwork for the Hansen case, but considering Sherlock had sent John sixty-seven texts in the last twelve minutes, something cataclysmic had occurred. To get that many texts through in that short amount of time, he had to have been hitting his 'send' button every nanosecond!

As John neared the half-shut door to Lestrade's office, he could hear strange sounds coming from the room. Was that _snorting_? And peals of _laughter?_

Stepping into the dimly lit office, John saw Greg sitting behind his deck and Sherlock leaning over the D.I's chair, one hand supporting himself on the desk and the other wiping tears from his eyes. Both men were red-faced and gasping for breath.

" _What_ is going on?" barked John. "I rushed over thinking the apocalypse was nigh and the two of you are in hysterics? Mind explaining?"

His words only sent the two into further paroxysms of laughter. Turning his laptop towards John, Greg pointed at the screen and said, "Read."

In Greg's inbox was a message with the subject: _Prepare for the End of the World: Learn how to Knit your Own Bomb Shelter._

John sniggered and said, "You two made me panic for this? You're bonkers!"


	27. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge this time: use the words “recidivism”, “toga”, “sympathy” and somehow reference the Great Barrier Reef.  
> ________________________________

John knew the recidivism rates amongst alcoholics; just look at Harry. While he was not without sympathy and he did love his sister, there were a great many days when he didn’t _like_ her.

Today was one of those days. He’d been awakened at 3:30 by a drunken Harry calling to hurl abuse at him. Apparently her falling off the wagon – again - was John’s fault. After listening to her for ten minutes, he hung up. But now he was wide awake.

John pulled on his robe and shuffled down the stairs to be greeted by piles of clothing scattered across the sitting room and David Attenborough’s “Great Barrier Reef” playing on the telly.

John was carefully making his way through the minefield of fabric – wait; was that a _toga_? – when Sherlock came bounding down the hall.

“Harry?” he asked as he dropped into his chair.

“Harry.” 

Nothing more needed to be said.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is all this?”

“I’m cataloguing my collection of disguises,” responded Sherlock as he pawed through the pile at his feet. 

“And you need to do this at stupid o’clock in the morning?”

Getting no response, John continued on into the kitchen. _Just another day in the insane asylum_ , he thought with a smile as he put the kettle on to boil.


	28. The Petting Zoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another challenge story: use the words “flagrant”, “spandex” and “triskaidekaphobia” and the story must somehow involve a petting zoo.   
> Honestly, I have no idea!
> 
> _______________________________________

John couldn't help but stare. In a flagrant disregard for what constitutes appropriate clothing when visiting a petting zoo, standing off to the side with a moue of distaste on her face was a woman wearing open-toed sandals with a heel of at least 5 inches, and the tightest, fuchsia-est spandex outfit he'd ever seen. Her attire had even made Sherlock do a double-take.

They'd arrived at Mudchute Park and Farm about an hour earlier, called in to investigate the theft of their prized herd of Pigmy Goats. They were favourites of the children, and the entire group – 13 in total – had disappeared overnight.

John was surprised that Sherlock had agreed to take the case, but when he'd questioned Sherlock's motives, the only response he'd received was, "I have some lovely memories of Mudchute."

So, here he was, early on a Saturday morning, torn between watching Sherlock's antics as he flitted about the goat enclosure and the woman in spandex, who was now teetering her way through the grass, her heels sinking in with every step.

A cry of "Triskaidekaphobia, John!" caught his attention.

"What?" asked John.

"Triskaidekaphobia. That's why the goats were taken. Their keeper is extremely suspicious of the number thirteen."

"Okay … but then why didn't he simply take one goat instead of thirteen?"

"Because he's a blockhead?"


	29. A Game of Scrabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend's challenge: use the words “facetiae”, “footle” and “flinty”.  
> My response on seeing her challenge: “Huhn? Better dig out the old dictionary.” Here is my best attempt.  
> ______________________________

The scrabble board was strategically arranged; the tiles, each bearing one drop of blood, were meticulously positioned … but where were the players? That was the mystery that had prompted Lestrade’s call.

Sherlock silently examined the room, lightning-quick eyes taking in everything before turning his attention to the table placed in the middle of the room.

Talking in low voices, Greg and John stood in the doorway watching the detective. They’d learned long ago that there was no point interrupting a genius at work; Sherlock was “in the zone” and John and Greg were well used to being ignored until it was time for his big reveal.

“Sherlock, stop with the footling and speak to me!” called Greg, finally losing patience.

A flinty stare from grey-green-blue eyes was the only response.

“Brrr,” said John with an exaggerated shiver and a grin aimed at the D.I., “did the temperature just drop 30 degrees?”

Greg’s laughter was interrupted by Sherlock’s pronouncement.

“Check the bakery three blocks from here. That isn’t blood, it’s Red Dye 40, commonly known as Allura Red. The pastry chef was having an affair with her sous-chef and her husband knew.” Pointing to the board he added, “See this word: ‘facetiae’. It means pornographic literature. It was a warning.”

“Amazing,” breathed John. “This one is definitely going on the blog!”


	30. Disguises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of my 221B "Harry"  
> ________________________ 

John and Sherlock were sitting in their respective chairs, drinking tea and staring at the various disguises that littered the floor.

"I have to ask," said John. "What's with the toga?"

Sherlock began to chuckle. "There's a funny story about that one. It's not actually mine … it's Mycroft's!"

"Mycroft!" spluttered John. "Mister 'I-am-but-a-small-cog-in-the-machine-but-I-secretly-rule-the-world'?"

"Hard to believe, I know, but I even have photographic proof. Just give me a moment; I've kept the photos well-hidden of course, because if Fatcroft ever found them …" said Sherlock as he hurried down the hall towards his bedroom.

"… there goes any bargaining power you may have," called John.

Sherlock reappeared and handed John an envelope. "Correct," he said.

"But why was Mycroft wearing a toga?" asked John.

"Let's just say that the situation involved the National Security Council, a double-agent, some highly sensitive information and a fancy dress party."

"Oh. My. God!" said John as he stared at the photos. "But still –a _toga_?"

"Mycroft was tasked with finding the mole. When he discovered that the next 'handover' would take place at a fancy dress party, he was none too pleased. But, duty called … and the only costume he could get last minute was a toga!"

John glanced at the slightly blurry photo again. "Wait, is that …?"

"Yep."

"… his brolly?!"


	31. Blood

Blood. John Watson, former British Army doctor, had seen enough blood for a lifetime. Blood spilling to the ground; blood that should have been pumping through veins to keep life in fragile human bodies. He’d seen friends’ blood staining the sands of Afghanistan. Hell, he’d seen his _own_ blood being absorbed by those same sands.

He’d had enough of blood, but it seemed that blood was not yet done with him. It invaded his dreams, leaving him tired and depressed. Since waking in hospital in Germany, John had not had one night where he wasn’t pulled from sleep by visions of blood and death. 

Then he met a self-diagnosed sociopath, a brilliant man who laid John bare with his deductions, cured his psychosomatic limp and eventually drove away the blood-ridden nightmares, leaving John grateful beyond words.

Sherlock Holmes was first his flatmate, then his friend, then his symbol of _Home_. 

Then Moriarty appeared with one aim in life: burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. John and Sherlock struggled against the rising tide of suspicion and fear that was threatening to overwhelm them, but to no avail.

In the end, on that damp and overcast June morning, all that remained was Sherlock’s broken body crumpled on the ground and John slumped before it, staring uncomprehendingly and whispering, “Blood; so much blood.”


	32. The Spider

He had been likened to a spider, weaving a web built on pain and fear; lies and deceit. The press made mention of innocent lives … but no one was truly innocent. Years earlier, they had gone on and on about ‘poor Carl Powers’ and how he was loved by everyone. No one bothered to ask little Jimmy Moriarty his opinion. 

Jim Moriarty quickly learned that it was so much more fun to be bad. So he spun his threads and wove his web. Carl Powers was the first strand, but soon the web grew. He ensnared High Court Judges, royalty, dominatrix and dying cabbies in its strands and he reveled in the power he held.

Moriarty sat at the middle of his creation, his feelers extending across the City, the country even, and marveled at how the strands all led to one person: Sherlock Holmes.

The Consulting Detective to his Consulting Criminal. Sherlock Holmes was a flawed, but exceedingly clever man, and Moriarty had such hopes. They could be the perfect team. 

Until _he_ showed up … a broken sycophant of an ex-army doctor, a new pet for Sherlock’s enjoyment. Worst of all, he made Sherlock _human_. 

That was unacceptable. If Moriarty couldn’t have Sherlock, then no one would. Enough of games; it was time to get down to business.


	33. My Sweet Boy

John had forgotten his umbrella and half-way home the skies had opened, which was why he now found himself standing in the entryway of 221B drenched, shivering and dripping. He had just hung up his jacket when Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared at his side, tutting and holding a large towel.

“My goodness, John,” she said as she threw the towel over his head and began drying his hair. As his head wobbled back and forth with the force of Mrs. Hudson’s scrubbing, John was reminded of his mother doing the exact same thing when he was little.

“Go change or you’ll catch your death. I’ll be up with tea in a moment.”

By the time John had dried off and changed, Mrs. Hudson was already in the sitting room and a steaming cup of tea waited at his chair. 

The two spent the next hour drinking tea and chatting and it wasn’t long before John was dozing over a half-eaten scone. Mrs. Hudson gazed fondly at her lodger, took the plate from his hand and then covered John with the afghan lying nearby.

Curling into the warmth of the coverlet, John murmured, “Thanks, Mum,” and then fell asleep.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hudson with a catch in her voice. Running her hand softly across John’s head, she whispered, “Sleep, my sweet boy.”


	34. Lest We Forget

Every year since his return, no matter the weather, John made a personal journey. A journey of pain and healing. A journey tinged with sadness. A journey of remembrance.

Today's journey, however, was very different from the ones of his past. Today, he walked along the street in measured steps, where once his pace had been slow and hitching. And unlike previous years, today he was not alone.

John had come downstairs to find Sherlock waiting in the sitting room, sporting his Belstaff which now held a bright red poppy on the left lapel.

"Going somewhere?" he asked as he reached past his friend to grab his own shooting jacket from its hook.

Sherlock watched John shrug on his coat and pull on a pair of black leather gloves. "With you, if you'll have me," he said, once John was dressed.

Sherlock's request surprised John. In all the years they'd been friends, Sherlock had never once asked to accompany him while he attended the Armistice Day ceremonies. "Of course you can come," responded John. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_ ," said Sherlock sincerely as they stepped out of 221B into the brisk autumn air.

Standing at the edge of the crowded Cenotaph, his friend standing ramrod straight beside him, Sherlock thought, not for the first time, _here is the definition of bravery_.


	35. Lost Without My Blogger

"It's only for two days, Sherlock," exclaimed John, tossing his wash bag into his carry-on and zipping it closed.

"But John," whined the Consulting Detective, "I'm injured and I'm stuck in the flat. Who's going to entertain me?"

John rolled his eyes and stared up at the ceiling with a "why me" expression on his face. "Nice to know that my role is to provide you entertainment," he said sarcastically, reaching for his jacket.

"You know what I mean," snapped Sherlock as he hobbled over to his chair and sat down. He'd tripped over a stray cat at a crime scene a couple of days ago and had sprained his ankle. Said ankle was now encased in a compression bandage and Sherlock was under strict instructions to " _stay off it, or I swear Sherlock!_ "

Seeing how miserable Sherlock looked, John sighed. "I can stay, if you really want me to," he said gently.

Sherlock met John's compassionate gaze. "No; go. I'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs and Lestrade is bringing me some cold cases later. But … can I text you?" he asked diffidently.

"Of course, Sherlock. But why? I can't imagine I'll be much help," responded John as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder.

Sherlock's answer sent a warm glow through John: "Because I'm lost without my blogger."


	36. Writer's Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got back to the source with this one!  
> _______________________ 

The moustachioed man sat at his desk, hunched over a pile of papers covered with scratchings. He had specks of ink on his right sleeve and his hands bore testament to his livelihood. On the floor beside the desk was a bin filled to overflowing with crumpled pages. Wads of paper congregated on the floor and lay in a random trail that ended at the fireplace. It, too, was filled with torn and shredded vellum.

Arthur Conan Doyle's latest Sherlock Holmes story was not going well.

_And the murderer is_ …., he wrote on a clean sheet.

Doyle leaned back in his chair and huffed. He scratched out the four words and rubbed his hand across his scalp and through his thinning hair. Leaning back in, he wrote: _The culprit is_ …

He stared at the words for several long moments, tapping his pen on the edge of the paper and causing more dots of India ink to adorn his sleeve and blotter.

Doyle snarled and, once again, scratched through the words, hard enough that the nib pierced the paper and tore it straight across.

He crumpled the page and threw it to the side. Positioning a fresh sheet, he wrote: _And the murderer is_ ….

"I have no _bloody_ idea who the murderer is!" roared Doyle. "Damn this writer's block!"


	37. Mr. Snuggles

John Hamish Watson loved his young patients. Their parents however - they were often something else!

Take, for example, young Mitchell. John had first met Mitchell when his mother brought him in for his pre-school booster. Knowing that young children often feared needles, John was prepared. He had Mr. Snuggles – a stuffed elephant – close by in case hugs were required; he had a sheet of superhero stickers to give to Mitchell after the vaccination and check-up were done and he even had a handful of lollipops in a small jar on his desk.

All his preparations proved unnecessary as Mitchell handled everything like a trooper. His mother, though, was a different story. At the sight of the needle, she burst into hysterical crying. Disconcerted by the loud sobbing John paused, looked over at the distraught woman and then back into the bright blue eyes of the four-year-old boy.

Much to John’s amusement, Mitchell rolled his eyes, passed Mr. Snuggles to his mother and said, “Here Mummy. He needs a hug.”

Once the check-up had been completed, stickers and a lollipop given to the smiling Mitchell and a slightly-moist Mr. Snuggles handed back, John gave Mitchell a wink and then ushered them towards reception.

Closing the exam room door, he leaned against the wood, gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Oh brother!”


	38. His Hands

How ridiculous. Here he was - a man who spent hours manipulating tiny pipettes and handling delicate microscope slides, yet a kitchen knife was his downfall.

His hands were his livelihood and the gateway to his passion, the violin. His hands told the tale of his life. Here was a scar from the blackberry brambles that lived at the back of the house. How he loved those sweet, juicy blackberries. Many a late August afternoon was spent lying in the tall grass, plucking blackberries off the brambles and popping them into his mouth. He paid no mind to the scratches he earned.

On the side of his right hand was a long burn mark, the result of a momently lapse of concentration and a lit Bunsen burner. The finger tips on his left hand were slightly calloused from years of violin.

He was quite vain about his hands, with their long, slender fingers and immaculate nails. He took great care of them. Regular manicures and moisturizing made them a thing a beauty.

And now … another scar to add to the collection. They say dull kitchen knives are a danger; Sherlock can attest that sharp ones are a danger too.

"John," he called as he stood by the sink washing the blood away from his index finger. "I need a bandage!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is obvious I'm slightly obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch's hands?


	39. Bruised

John had been relaxing in his chair when a cry split the air hard on the heels of several loud thumps, causing him to bolt for the stairway. 

“Don’t move!” cried John as he rushed down the stairs towards the body that lay in a heap at the bottom. By the time he’d made it to Sherlock’s side, the younger man was sitting up and rubbing his elbow.

“I said _don’t move_!” snapped John as he crouched at Sherlock’s side. “I swear, you’re a bloody menace sometimes.”

Holding Sherlock’s face gently between his palms, he stared into the other man’s blue-green-grey eyes. Fortunately his pupils were equal and responsive. “How many fingers am I holding up?” asked John.

“ _Honestly_ John,” drawled the lanky detective as he swatted at John’s hands.

“How many?” barked the ex-Army Doctor.

“Three. I am fine. No concussion, no broken bones; I’m _fine_!!”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said John as he helped his friend relocate to the stairs. “What happened?”

While John gently ran his hands over Sherlock’s torso and skull, Sherlock muttered, “I tripped,” and then hissed as John touched his elbow.

When he’d completed his impromptu examination, John looked at his friend in amazement. “Incredible,” he said. “A tumble down the stairs and all you’ve got to show for it is a bruise!”


	40. His Eyes

His eyes. Two perfect yet changeable orbs that had seen so much over his lifetime. They had seen so much beauty; they had seen so much pain.

How brightly his eyes shone with joy when he was puttering around in his Granddad's garden. His grandfather had been a soldier and a doctor and he was the young child's hero. He was also a dab hand with roses and John could easily recall the brilliant reds and gentle pinks, the pure whites and vibrant yellows that filled his childhood.

Later on, those same eyes, tired and bloodshot, scanned text books and glanced at charts and x-rays, absorbing all the information necessary for John to fulfil his life's dream and become a doctor. But not just any doctor, an _army_ doctor.

He saw the beauty and desolation of Afghanistan; he saw bright red blood flowing from devastating wounds; he saw some friends make it home; he saw many more friends die in the most horrible ways imaginable.

His eyes. In anger, they could turn the colour of the storm-tossed sea. In joy, they were as bright as the sky on a sunlit day. They dimmed in sadness and turned almost black due to pain.

They were beautiful and oh-so-changeable. But John never saw it. To him, his eyes were nothing more than "blue".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ode to Martin Freeman's frankly _gorgeous_ eyes.


	41. Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for a reviewer on FF.net who referred to Rupert Graves' eyes as "pools of melted chocolate" and asked for a story about his eyes.  
> ___________________________________________

"Your eyes remind me of my neighbour's basset hound" were the first words his now ex-wife had said to him. He still didn't know if that was an insult. One girlfriend had referred to them as "pools of melted chocolate", which made Greg laugh heartily.

Both women were correct: Greg's eyes were common, but in a rather … unique … way.

When asked to describe the eye colour of the slightly stoop-shouldered, grey-haired Detective Inspector, the typical response was, "brown." But as you came to know Greg, came to understand his passions, his hopes and yes, his fears, you soon learned that his eyes were so much more than their colour.

Underlings were terrified to come under their scrutiny. When angry or upset, Greg's eyes didn't turn dark. No, instead, his eyes grew golden and flashed liked lightening. One glance and newbies (and some not-so-newbies) had been known to freeze, like a deer caught in a car's headlights – terrified to bring more attention on themselves.

Yet, when gazing on children, those same eyes became soft and kind; filled with compassion and a longing for something that had passed him by.

His eyes looked tired most of the time, with laugh lines and drooping eyelids … much like a basset hound. But there is no doubting that they are beautiful to behold.


	42. Heterochromia

By his fourth birthday, not only could he pronounce “heterochromia”, he understood and could explain to those of lesser intelligence the science behind his amazing eyes.

Sometimes blue, sometimes green, or even silvery-grey, his eyes were all-seeing. A neighbour had once commented how his eyes and long, long lashes were “wasted on a boy.” Mummy was indignant on his behalf, but Sherlock didn’t care. He was more interested in said neighbour’s growing relationship with the green-grocer’s assistant, and he didn’t hesitate to speak up.

As Sherlock grew, he taught himself to cry on cue. He mastered the art of lowering his gaze and looking out from under his lashes. People were so entranced by his attractiveness that they missed the slightly sardonic gleam of intelligence that accompanied that same look. When necessary – i.e. for a case – he took great care to dress in colours that accentuated the uniqueness of his eyes. 

He honed his skills at deduction and trained himself in what was referred to as the “Great Game.” He learned to observe every tiny detail. His gaze drew in everything around him and he stored all the information in his ever-expanding mind palace.

Sherlock didn’t care if people thought his eyes _beautiful_ or _arresting_ ; they were merely another tool in his arsenal. And their appearance? The result of simple biology.


	43. Windows of the Soul

They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. If that was true, then the soul that shone out from the depths of these particular orbs was cruel indeed.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Jim Moriarty’s eyes were quite lovely. They were large and a brown so dark as to be almost black. It was only when you became trapped by Moriarty’s scrutiny that you saw the insanity and depravity that lurked beneath.

His gaze was cruel; his eyes cold as the winter frost. There was no warmth in their regard.

His eyes were a weapon: a gentle, slightly watery look drew you in to their depths. But once ensnared, you couldn’t break free. There was an intensity to the man’s gaze that was unnerving. Many a larger and stronger man quaked when confronted by Moriarty’s laser-like stare.

He had seen despair, usually caused by him. And it thrilled him to his core. He never shied away from seeing the results of his actions. In fact, he lived for those moments. He could look on pain and death and see only beauty in the way blood pooled on the floor, or in the torn and broken flesh of his victims. At those moments, his eyes shone with an unholy glee.

His eyes exposed his soul, broken and bloody.


	44. It Was An Experiment!

The kitchen at 221B looked like a scene straight out of a low-budget horror film, and it stopped John dead in his tracks.

"SHERLOCK!" John's " _I was a Captain in the British Army, so don't mess with me_ " tone of voice was fully evident.

A thud sounded from Sherlock's bedroom and then all was silent … suspiciously so.

John marched down the short hallway, coming to a crisp halt at Sherlock's room. The door, which was usually slightly ajar, was firmly shut.

He rapped on the wood and said, very calmly, "I know you're in there, Sherlock. Open up." John's request was greeted with heavy silence. He knocked again, louder, and said in a firm, no-nonsense tone, "Open the damn door or I swear I'll break it down!"

A few seconds later the door opened and Sherlock appeared. His hair was mussed and his shirt bore evidence to the carnage in the kitchen but he was making a valiant attempt to appear calm, cool and collected. "Yes John?" he asked, innocently.

"Don't play innocent with me, you great lout," snapped John. "I don't know what the _hell_ you've been playing at, but you've got two hours to clean that kitchen or so help me …"

"It was an experi …"

"I don't care! Just clean up your bloody mess, you berk!"


	45. Borborygmi

John watched Sherlock make another tour of the sitting room, his dressing gown fluttering behind him like a damned cape.

The Detective had been like this for hours. The case was so convoluted that even though Sherlock _knew_ who had killed Mrs. Dunbury, he had not yet found incontrovertible proof.

By John's reckoning, Sherlock hadn't slept in over 39 hours and the last bit of food that had passed the Consulting Detective's lips were two stale biscuits John had forced on him over 14 hours ago! In fact, not two minutes earlier John had heard a telltale growling noise coming from the vicinity of Sherlock's stomach. It wasn't enough, though, to cause Sherlock to hesitate in his perambulations.

But John was ready. Earlier, he had prepared a sandwich that was now sitting, tightly wrapped, in the fridge. The Doctor had simply been waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Another rumble filled the air, both longer and louder than the previous, and John grinned as he stepped into the kitchen.

Sherlock was so locked in his head that he didn't notice the shorter man until he ran into him.

"John? What are you doing?"

"Eat!" ordered John, as he placed a small triangle of sandwich in Sherlock's hand.

"Not hungry," replied the detective as his stomach grumbled again.

"Tell that to your borborygmi!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Borborygmi - rumbling or gurgling noises made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines, i.e. stomach rumbles". Sometimes John likes to show he's really quite intelligent!


	46. An Unplanned Swim

The small man seated on the end of the ambulance looked even smaller as he huddled under the bright orange shock blanket. His knees were pulled in tight to his chest, his hair was plastered to his head and a large puddle of water had formed on the ground beneath him. Beads of water dripped in a steady rhythm down the back of his neck.

Despite the relatively warm day, hypothermia was a definite concern and the paramedics were keeping close watch on their patient.

"What the _hell_ you were doing, you idiot?" yelled Lestrade.

John gave a full-body shudder and, with teeth clacking, responded, "Trying to save the evidence to prove that Samuelson is the thief."

"By jumping into the Thames, John? Really?"

"I saw him toss his phone over the railing. Sherlock was close to nabbing Samuelson and no one else was around, so …." The doctor's voice trailed away as his shivering became more pronounced.

"All right," said Lestrade, as he grabbed another blanket and wrapped it tightly around his friend. "But you're going to hospital to get checked out."

"Greg, I'm fine," said John. "A hot shower, a cuppa and a couple of Mrs. Hudson's scones and I'll be right as rain."

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Greg. "Hospital, John, and no arguments. Your lips are _blue_!"


	47. My Brother

The old man (and wasn't that in itself a miracle? He'd made it to his seventy-eighth year relatively unscathed) stood beside the small urn, his hand resting gently on its top.

Time had not bowed Sherlock Holmes nor had it robbed him of his thick curls, though they were now snow white. The only concession to his age was the cane in his right hand - the result of a steep staircase and a smuggler who had not hesitated to kick a Consulting Detective when he was down.

Sherlock looked out over the small gathering. Molly and Greg were there, surrounded by their growing family; Sarah and her husband had arrived from London and there were even a few men who were obviously ex-military. Though none wore a uniform, there was just something about them that screamed "army".

Sherlock glance down at the urn with a small smile. His kaleidoscope eyes dimmed for a few moments but with a minute shake of his head, he straightened and turned to face the people waiting for him to speak.

"John Hamish Watson", he said, "was many things to each of us. A friend, a doctor, a gentle soul with a wicked temper and a terrible joke-teller. He was these things to me as well, but most of all … he was my brother."


	48. Sick and Tired of it All

It was beautiful – if a cocktail could be called beautiful. Shades of orange and red, layer on layer; no wonder it was called a Tequila Sunrise. Beside it sat a tall glass filled with a liquid the most amazing blue. Apparently it was called a “Blue Lagoon”, but to him it was “John’s Eyes”.

“ _Sentiment_ ”, he muttered under his breath. “These drinks are making me maudlin,” he said as he downed the blue libation. Sherlock waved the empty glass in the air and called to the bartender, “Another!”

He was now into his sixth month of self-imposed exile, and he had never been so miserable. He was exhausted, and sore, and heartsick. He missed London; damn it all, he even missed Mycroft!

But most of all, he missed his John. His unassuming, gentle yet steadfast friend, with the execrable taste in jumpers and the steadiest hands of anyone.

His John … who made him tea and bought him Hobnobs. Who worried almost too much about the wellbeing of the World’s Only Consulting Detective. Sherlock had known at the beginning of this debacle that leaving London, leaving John, was going to be difficult; but he never realized how difficult until now.

Sitting here, in a grotty bar in a forgotten part of the world he downed his drink in one, feeling bilious.


	49. Backlash

Mycroft stood, waiting for the inevitable backlash. 

He glanced down at the ragged piece of paper clutched in his hand. The list was short; mercifully so. Only a few substances, written in Sherlock’s copperplate hand, but it was enough to make Mycroft’s heart stutter and his mind go blank.

Flashing lights bounced off the surrounding buildings, bathing the dank bricks and gaping windows in a kaleidoscope of too-bright colour. But it was the noise that churned Mycroft’s stomach and brought a sour taste to the back of his throat.

The sirens, the paramedics yelling back and forth across Sherlock’s prone body; they assaulted his ears. Worst of all was the barely audible sound of Sherlock’s laboured breaths.

Mycroft was scared, but he was also livid. Turning to the man at his side, he bit out, “I _told_ him. I warned him that should I find him in this state again he would be sent to rehab, whether or not he wants to go.”

Sergeant Lestrade turned to him and said sadly, “You know he won’t stay. Rehab won’t work if he doesn’t want to be there.”

“I know,” sighed Mycroft, “but what am I to do? Watch him kill himself?”

He sighed again, “Arrangements have been made.”

“He’ll hate you for it.”

“I know.”

Mycroft stood, waiting for the inevitable backlash.


	50. Into Battle

It was a nightmare. Tempers were flaring, exhaustion was taking over, fear was rising – and that was only within the confines of 221B. 

Sherlock had been stuck in the flat for over three weeks now due to the stay at home order and he was driving both John and Mrs. Hudson round the bend. With his medical history and the fact that, despite his assertions to the contrary, he was _still_ smoking, John had laid down the law and told Sherlock that until things calmed down there was no way Sherlock was going to set one toe outside the building.

“I’m not a child,” declared Sherlock petulantly. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

John smiled at his friend, “Sorry, Sherlock, but it’s for your own good. I’ve made arrangements with Greg and he is going to drop off some cold case files for you to go through. And don’t get any ideas of sneaking out when I’m not around. You have to consider Mrs. Hudson.”

“What do you mean _not around_? Where are you planning on going?” asked Sherlock.

“I’ve been hired by Bart’s for the duration; I’ll be working 4 shifts a week to start. They are desperate for help and my Army background is a bonus.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. 

Once again, Dr. John Watson was heading into battle.


	51. Happy Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The passage of time gives John food for thought.   
> This double 221B is my small contribution to the 10th Anniversary of the airing of our beloved "Sherlock".

John stood in front of the stove, one eye on the eggs he was stirring in the pan and the other on the toaster. He didn’t have much faith in the toaster – not since Sherlock had gotten hold of it and played with the insides in an attempt to increase the temperature of the heating elements. Now, you either got toast that was barely the colour of a parsnip or it was blackened and burnt and completely inedible.

John’s mind, though, was a million miles away. 

Actually, it was only about 15 metres away, focused as it was his long, lanky, curly-haired love who was presently spread across their bed like a starfish and snoring gently.

_Ten years_ , thought John. It was almost too much to comprehend. It had been ten years since he followed Mike into that lab in Bart’s, a sad, broken … and yes, suicidal, man. Ten years since he had met the force of nature that would change his life in so many ways.

The passage of time had been hard on both John and Sherlock. Sherlock’s “not dead”, John’s bullet wound at the hand of Andrew Garrideb, various aches and pains accumulated over the years. Still, John would not have changed his life for anything. 

The passage of time had also brought love, joy and blessings.

***********

The smell of almost-burning bread brought John back to the present. Quickly rushing to rescue the toast – which was perfectly browned; John’s entreaty to the Toaster Gods had been heeded – his thoughts turned to the wonder his life had become.

At the top of the list: Sherlock’s love. John had been immediately attracted to his flatmate, and that attraction quickly turned to love. But respecting Sherlock’s comment of being married to his work, and not wanting to risk their friendship, John kept mum.

It was Sherlock who found the courage to speak of love. While John was in hospital recovering from the bullet to his leg, Sherlock was a continual presence. When the wound became infected and everyone feared for John’s life, Sherlock spent days at his side brokenly whispering, “John, I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

When the fever broke and John finally opened his eyes to see Sherlock collapsed in a chair, his hand clutching John’s, his first words were “I love you too.”

Since that day, Sherlock and John had become _SherlockandJohn_ and neither man couldn’t have been happier.

Picking up the breakfast tray, John trotted down the hall and into the bedroom where Sherlock was just waking up.

“What’s this?” asked Sherlock as John placed the tray on his lap.

“Happy Anniversary, love. Breakfast in bed.”


End file.
